I suppose to begin this sermon, I should
start with a couple confessions. I was
mightily tempted to say to each of you “Go and do likewise” and sit back
down. Any words that I could say, in
truth, pale when compared to the sermon that David lived. Those inclined to argue need only look
around. More than 200 of us are gathered
here today, standing room only, from eclectic and even no faith backgrounds, to
give thanks to God for the life of David Kline.
He was a husband, a father, a brother, a grandpa, a friend, a confidant,
a rock, a kind word, a shoulder to cry on, and so much more to each of us
gathered here to remember his life and to mourn with Mary and the family, even
as we remind ourselves that his life is not ended, only changed.
I was tempted to be incredibly short, but
I realize that the manner of David’s death requires some further
discussion. For those of us who claim
Jesus as Lord and Savior, David’s death seems untimely. For those who wrestle with faith or struggle
to find meaning in life, David’s death may seem to confirm our worst
suspicions. If there is a God who is
good and all-powerful and all the things that David claimed, why did he let
David die on the side of the road in such a meaningless way? If God really cares about loving others, why
did He not preserve David’s life when that truck and car struck him, each
other, and the car pulled over on the side of the road? If God is good and loving and all those
wonderful things that David and we claim, why would he allow David to be taken
from his family during Christmas time, of all times? And how, how can we ever expect to see
David’s death redeemed in our lifetime?
Yes, I have had quite the number of conversations with Adventers and
friends and co-workers of David. Those
are some of the questions being asked, and it falls on the clergy to answer
those questions as wisely and winsomely as possible.
And before I get going, I’d like to thank
all of you who showed up at the gathering before the service in the Parish Hall
to share your favorite stories about David.
It was wonderful to hear of long-lasting friendships, to hear how David
was admired by his coworkers and how he ran his shop! It was a bit disappointing to hear he was a
goody-two-shoes as a kid, but, hey, nobody, but our Lord, is perfect! On behalf of Adventers and the family, thank
you for sharing those wonderful memories.
I know it takes some guts to stand in front of a bunch of people and
risk emotions and vulnerability. And I
encourage you to continue to share them as the days turn into weeks and the
weeks turn into months ahead.
If you are participating in an Episcopal
service for the first time, and wondering at the strange way we do things, even
as they seem somewhat familiar, welcome.
We are glad you are celebrating with us.
Our services have two parts, a Liturgy of the Word and a Liturgy of the
Sacrament. David would be the first to
tell you that the preachers don’t always get the Liturgy of the Word right, so
the Sacrament offers us a “second chance” at meeting Jesus during the
sermon. You may be surprised at the lack
of pictures and by the presence of a pall covering David’s cremains. That, too, is intentional. The focus of this service, as was the focus
of David’s life, is meant to be Jesus.
It matters not whether we are kings or paupers, each of us is promised
to one day face our Lord. And so the
lack of “personal” items is intentional, to keep us rightly focused. The only ornament is the Pascal Candle, which
is lit to remind us that David has been raised to his new life in Christ, that
he has been robed in immortality and imperishability, to use Paul’s
description. No doubt you will have
other questions, and I encourage you to ask after the service or later in the
week.
My other confession was the sermon. In truth, I had four sermons bouncing around
in my head for this event. Each of the
readings came rather easily, and I cannot claim too much surprise that I had
more than one sermon bouncing around in my head up here. In private conversations, ome of you have
asked about Resurrection and what I think has happened to David, and the Wisdom
of Sirach and First Corinthians certainly speak to that. Several of you have commented to me how David
took his faith seriously in your eyes, that he was the furthest from a
hypocrite that you could imagine, and so you might find comfort in Psalm
42. Both Mary and I arrived at Psalm 139
independently of each other, so maybe there are a number of you struggling with
the idea that God knows you intimately, loves you dearly in spite of your own
perspective or self-worth, and would love to begin to work in you that which
you saw in our brother David’s life. In
the end, I decided to preach on Luke’s famous Good Samaritan because, after
speaking to so many of you today and listening to some of those words in the
parish hall, it is the perspective of the Good Samaritan that so illumined
David and guided his view of the world.
Luke tells this story and begins by
stating the purpose of the lawyer who asked the question of Jesus. What
must I do to inherit eternal life?
As is so often the case, Jesus does not answer the man directly. He asks the man what he thinks leads to
eternal life. The man answers with the
Shema, love the Lord you God with everything, and what we know as the Golden
Rule, love your neighbor as yourself. Jesus
tells the man he has answered correctly.
Jesus goes on to say that if the man does this, he will live. The lawyer, of course, is not really
interested in Truth. He’s looking for
justification, for a pat on the back, for an acknowledgement of this prophet
who claims to be the Son of Man, that he is headed for eternal life. And who
is my neighbor? Clearly, at worst,
the man expects to be told that all his brother and sister Jews are his
neighbors. At best, he may be hoping
that Jesus will simply state those that live in his neighborhood. He is looking for a clear boundary to be
drawn, and for his works to have been on the right side of that boundary. I say clearly because of the man’s response
to Jesus’ story.
Jesus answers the man by telling the story
of a faithful man on the road between Jericho and Jerusalem. That 16-17 miles road was a well-known
dangerous stretch for those pilgrimaging to the Temple. It’s a good climb, not particularly
well-settled, and full of caves and ravines and boulders. Our best analogy in modern times would be
something like going to church in the hood of our major cities, driving our
fancy cars, wearing our best clothes, sporting our best jewelry, and with
wallets stuffed with cash for the offering place. Like you coming to church, Jews pilgrimaging
to Temple wore or brought their best clothes.
They brought their best livestock, or money to buy the appropriate
animal from the Temple priests. In some
respects, we might say they were gullible.
God will surely protect us as we
journey to Jerusalem. The problem
with that, of course, is that the bad guys knew it. Pilgrims were easy marks, easy targets,
particularly those who chose not to travel in larger groups!
So, this man in Jesus’ story is attacked
by bandits. He is stripped of his
clothing and all of his possessions. He
is beaten by the robbers—we can easily imagine him trying to keep his Sunday
best or offerings to God as a pious man—and left for dead.
A priest comes along and then a
Levite. Neither stops to render
assistance. Did they think him
dead? Were they in too much of a hurry
to be delayed? We do not know. Jesus does not relate those details. No doubt those of you who attend church
regularly have heard that the two men likely assumed the man was dead and so
wanted to avoid being rendered unclean by coming into contact with a dead
body. It sounds good, it sounds
reasonable, except for the fact that the Mishnah makes it clear that, in the
absence of family, the uncleanliness did not apply to a priest when dealing
with a dead body. Put in plain English,
the priest could have touched him because there was no family present! Yet neither do. Neither seems to get close enough to realize
that the man is still alive!
Then comes the truly shocking part of the
story. A Samaritan comes along. In modern times, I’m not sure we have the
cultural equivalent of a Samaritan. I
suppose that some Americans despise Muslims, but nowhere near all Americans
do. Those of us that are older might
think of some race or group stronger than the Commie bastards of the cold
war. Maybe we should think of the Civil
War era Yankees with strong religious overtones? Israel had a visceral hatred of the
Samaritans. The Samaritans were the
descendants of those left behind when Assyria rolled through town and carried
the northern kingdom off into slavery.
Because most Jews were carried off, those left behind were forced to
marry those Assyrians imported in to the area.
To complicate matters a bit more, both the
Samaritans and the Jews fought about who was worshipping Yahweh properly. Each had their own Temple and location. The Samaritans accepted the first five books
of what we call the Old Testament as Scripture, whereas the Jews discerned
other books belonged in Scripture. The idea of a Good Samaritan would have been
the most extreme version of an oxymoron in Jewish culture. They did not speak to each other. They did not worship together. They avoided each other like the plague. Surely the Samaritan would pass by, too!
Jesus’ audience would have been stunned by
the rest of the story. We are not as
attentive to grammar today, but Jesus uses active verbs to describe the effort
and intention of the Samaritan. The
Samaritan goes to the beaten and
naked Jew. The Samaritan pours oil and wine on the wounds of the
Jewish man. The Samaritan bandages the Jewish man. The Samaritan puts the Jewish man on his donkey and leads it to the inn. The Samaritan carries the Jewish man, presumably too weak to walk, from the
donkey into the inn. In the inn, the
Samaritan takes care of the wounded
Jewish man. Once the Jewish man seems on
the road to recovery, and no doubt attending to some delayed business, the
Samaritan pays the innkeeper enough
for the wounded Jewish man to stay and recuperate for two weeks. Finally, he instructs the innkeeper to keep a
tab for anything else required for the wounded Jewish man, promising to repay
upon his return. This aid, as Jesus
highlights, is active. There is no “oh,
that’s too bad. I hope God will take
care of him.” Empty prayers are not
offered by the Samaritan. No, indeed,
the Samaritan takes it upon himself to see the Jewish man healed and restored.
Then, Jesus asks that wonderful question: Which of these three, do you think, was a
neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers? If you wondered whether I exaggerated the
Jewish/Samaritan hatred, notice the answer.
The lawyer does not answer Jesus, “The Samaritan.” Instead, he replies, “The one who showed him
mercy.” Then Jesus answers with that
command that so tempted me as a summary of David’s life: Go and do likewise.
As is so often the case in Scripture,
Jesus does a wonderful job of reframing perspectives and understandings with
His own questions and answers. And for
those of us who proclaim Him Lord and Savior and Messiah, that reframing
carries with it certain consequences, demands, and expectations. What separates the priest and Levite from the
Samaritan? All three see the wounded man
left for dead. All three recognize there
is likely a need. Yet only one chooses
actively to engage in the care and ministering to the wounded man. All three have eyes. All three have ears. So what, in the end, separates them? I think the lawyer’s answer to Jesus’ question,
and our Lord’s assent, points us in the right direction.
Throughout Scripture, human beings are
described as in need of circumcised hearts.
Over and over again, God points out to humanity that we are not
merciful, we are not loving, we are not compassionate. Oh, we are polite in many cases. Sure, we try to get along with others much of
the time. But how often do we really
demonstrate the heart of God in the world around us? How often do we see, hear, and understand
need and then work, actively work, to improve the situations of others? A few weeks ago, all I asked of us in
Tennessee was to write a couple letters on behalf of a young woman whose
circumstances caused us to change our laws, and 26 other states to follow suit,
when dealing with survivors of modern slavery.
Yet how many followed through in that incredibly difficult fight against
injustice? Often, we will cluck our lips
or remark at the need of others, heck, we may even say aloud, Someone should really do something about . .
. , but how many of us follow through?
How many of us seek to be the ones who do what they have been given eyes
to see, ears to hear, or hearts to understand?
I know David’s tragic death has been hard
for many of you. I have probably spoken
to fifty or sixty of you about the unfairness of his death, about the cruelty,
about the wasted faith he had, and any other ways you have engaged me. From a human perspective, I understand the
hurt. From a human perspective, I
understand the doubt and the pain. From
a human perspective I understand the seeming futility. David died for being a Good Samaritan. David died, ultimately, trying to care for
someone along the side of the road who may have been wounded. And in that caring for others, he was
rewarded by losing his life.
Thankfully and mercifully, the human
perspective is not the only perspective at play in this seemingly senseless and
certainly tragic death. Thankfully and
gloriously, our Lord has something else to say to us. Each of you is gathered here today to honor
David and to mourn with his family. As I
listened to conversations in the parish hall, as I have spoken on the phone
with many of you, as I have exchange e-mails with some present and some absent,
I have heard clearly how each of you, in turn, felt loved by David. I have heard over and over and over again how
David was the shoulder to cry on, how David and Mary were people who helped you
. . . and not just with prayers. I have
heard over and over again how David had something that just made you know he
cared about you, wanted the best for you, and was joyed to know you. And I am not saying I have not heard about
any fights. David himself spoke of
family fights. He and Mark could get it
on like only brothers can. He and Mary
fought from time to time as only husbands and wives can. And yes, even his beloved children and he got
into it from time to time. If he fought
with those he loved most, I have no doubt he had fights and disagreements with
others.
But what many of you are struggling to
name that you found in David or that you will most miss in David was described
best by our Lord Christ in this story.
David realized some time ago that the onus was on him to be the
neighbor. It was not David’s job to
figure out if this person or that person was worthy or deserving of help. It was his job, whenever God gave him eyes
and ears and a heart to see the need, to be merciful, to be loving. And in being that lover of all his neighbors,
look at the testimony of his life: you!
All of us gathered here this day to celebrate his life are mutts and
mismatched parts. David did not set out
to love only Episcopalians or Anglicans—God knows there are too few of those
around for such love to be significant.
David did not set out to love only Christians. God knows some of those are challenging to
love! David set out each day with the
intention of living a life like the Good Samaritan in Jesus’ story. And your presence here today testifies to the
success of his efforts! When an eclectic
group such as us comes together to mourn and to celebrate, someone got
something right! Today, we remember that
someone was David.
And, although each of us gathered here
have reason to mourn, David would be the first to tell each of us not to mourn
for too long. David died as he lived,
loving others as himself. David died on
the cusp of the season where we celebrate the Incarnation of God, incarnating
that same kind of love that His Lord Christ would during His life. And David would remind us that his life now
is changed, not ended, thanks to His Lord who was, as in the words of Paul this
morning, the first fruits of the Resurrection.
And in the end, that was the hope that
drove David. In the end, it was the
power and promise of the Resurrection that convinced him that his perspective
needed to be changed, that his heart needed to be changed. In everyone gathered here this morning that
David helped, there was a cost to him and to Mary. In baptismal language, we would say he died
to self each and every time he put our needs ahead of his own. And now, we celebrate that he gets to
experience the other side of that covenant, that if he died to self in Christ he
will be raised to new life, just like his Lord Christ. As a priest in Christ’s One, Holy, catholic
and Apostolic Church, I can think of no better example in the flock to which I
am assigned. I will for a time
mourn. No doubt as I listen to Mary and
to Lucas and others of you, I may be moved to tears by your stories. But those tears are not the last word. That sadness is not the end of David’s
story. I know, because of God’s
faithfulness, I will see my brother again.
I may only see the back of his head because he will be up close to the
eternal throne with all those who laid down their lives for friends and
neighbors, but I will see him. David’s
fondest wish for all of you, too, was that he would see you as well. He lived his life intentionally and cognizant
of the fact that he was God’s appointed ambassador or herald in your life. He lived his life certain of his calling,
that it was his job to invite you to this amazing feast where he now waits for
us, where the food is beyond anything this earth can imagine, where the wine
tastes way better than Diet Cokes, and where amazing fellowship can be had for
all eternity!
Imagine, if you will for a moment, if we
all lived like David. How big would that
party be? How many more characters would
be there? How much more would our Lord
be glorified, as He was in David’s life and death?
Now, Go and do likewise!
In
Christ’s Peace,
Brian†
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